Bus

It’s funny how things happen.

One day you can be a complete stranger to someone, the next day some brat hits you in the face with a football, you meet their gym teacher, and then over time you don’t feel so odd calling her a “friend.”

I never claimed to know how the universe works or why people act the way they do. In fact, I’m the last person you want to consult about that shit, because I don’t know why shit happens. I just do what I do and stuff results from it. I don’t try to work with people unless they’re willing to work with me.

Maybe that’s why me and Mercedes are watching movies at her house tonight, and why I’m sitting on her couch as she comes back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn, placing it between us as she sits down next to me.

I don’t know why she invited me over tonight, and I still don’t know why she even bothers talking to me. She knows how horrible of a person I am. Our Christmas wasn’t so bad at all, but that was because I had nice company. She’s watched me mouth off at children at school and she hears me complain about my job and life all the time.

It baffles me why she’s not sick of me.

In fact, sometimes at night, she’ll message me over Facenook and we’ll end up chatting about random shit that probably doesn’t make any sense to anybody other than us, and I even gave her my seldom-used cell phone number so she can send me little texts with smiley faces in them, to which I take ten minutes to reply because flip phones don’t have keyboards.

Like I just said, I don’t know why my life has become this weird.

I don’t know if I have the right to complain, either.

It’s a Saturday night and we’re watching a movie about mobsters at her place, and even though we’re quiet for a reason, the silence is weird for us. Normally she doesn’t shut up about anything, and when we watch movies or TV together, she’ll tell me all these useless facts about the actors and their lives, and I’ll just look at her funny and she’ll laugh and punch my shoulder for it. I guess I understand why she’s quiet – it’s a pretty complicated movie. There are long stretches with no dialogue in it, and even I have to pay attention to keep track of it despite the fact that I’ve seen this movie before.

But I find my eyes wandering, and like so many times I’ve been at her abode, my eyes trail over the plethora of family photos scattered along her walls. People who look like her are smiling, and her teenage years are documented in pictures everywhere. Mercedes is actually proud of her family and I envy that. She’s even got pictures of her in her Marines uniform with her whole clan, of her in a square cap graduating from college. Anything to remind her of her roots, I guess. Must be nice to like where you’ve come from.

I don’t want to ask about them all, but I don’t want to hide the fact that I’m looking. She’s still focused on the movie. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’d want to talk about her family. Obviously she loves them and misses them. I don’t want to hit a sore spot, though. I’m already bad enough at people, and she’s probably the last person I want to harm right now. I know a thing or two about assholes prying into my life – every funeral I went to was full of them – and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone I remotely enjoy.

The silence is deafening, though; she probably wants to talk. I just won’t delve too deep into it. No problem.

So I ask, “You got a lot of family pictures around here.”

She pulls her head up from her hand where her chin was resting. “Yeah, I gotta keep ‘em close to me since they’re all a million miles away.”

I nod and somewhat smile. That makes sense for her to do that. Suddenly I feel a weight off my chest and the silence doesn’t seem so bad anymore. At least I tried to make conversation and she didn’t get mad at me for it.

Another five minutes pass without either of saying a word, but then Mercedes pipes up when she tilts her head at me and softly asks, “Do you ever miss your family?”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out; I actually have to think about this one. Do I really miss the bunch of freaks who shared my genes before they were dumb enough to get killed? On the other hand, why wouldn’t I miss the people who are the reason I’m alive?

“I – I don’t know,” I stammer. “They were…weird. I dunno if my life would be any better if they were still here, but I wouldn’t be in Yuma if they were.”

She has a serious face on. It’s one that looks concerned, and yet somehow I find myself dreading what’s about to come out of her mouth. Nobody who looks that worried is bound to say anything that could improve the situation.

“Were they ever mean to you?” she asks again.

Christ. “I don’t know.” It comes out a bit ruder than I intended in retrospect, but I wanted my point to get across. I didn’t want to pry into her life and that’s why I stopped asking her about her background. I even find myself looking away from her now.

She keeps on keeping on and then asks me, “Did you have friends growing up?” She’s not trying to berate me, at least I think, but there’s no way in Hell I want to talk about how pathetic I am and have her feel sorry for me.

So I grumble something about being antisocial and how my only friend was my sister – I don’t even remember if I spoke in a complete sentence – and then I say louder, “I don’t even know if I have any friends nowadays.”

She’s quiet. Then, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

I turn to look at her again. “Do you consider us friends?”

She shrugs. “I do. I don’t know about you, but I do.”

“Then I guess we’re friends.”

She’s the first person outside of family to get personal with me. Nobody I ever worked for or worked with has ever asked me about my history or about the numerous unlucky deaths that have occurred in my gene pool, and other than Carrie, nobody really gives a shit about me when it comes to it all. Frankly, it’s annoying. When I feel like whining about all of that shit, I prefer to not drag other people down with me. I just stew in it all on my own, I’ve been doing it for years, and I won’t stop anytime soon.

Mercedes probably doesn’t realize it, but what she said hurt a bit. I’ll live my life the way I want – keeping it to myself.

She keeps staring at me. “Do you ever wanna talk about it?”

“No.” I hardly even let her finish.

“Come on, I’m sure you want to vent about it at least sometimes,” she digs, not sounding outwardly rude but goddamn, I’m getting that vibe and I don’t like it at all. If only she could read my mind.

“I prefer to keep my own shit to myself, thanks.” I don’t even care if I sound like an ass.

She sighs a little bit and tells me, “You know, it’s not healthy to do that all the time.”

I don’t even try to hide it when I roll my eyes. “Christ, you sound like my sister – nosy as hell.” At least Carrie knows everything about me and can tell when I’m pissed.

Mercedes adjusts her seat to face me more, and even though she even has a lighthearted air in her voice, everything she says is anything but to me. “I’m just trying to help, Doug. That’s what friends do for each other. I’m just saying, you always seem like you have some huge chip on your shoulder.”

Nobody has actually given a shit about my well-being, save for maybe Carrie. Why the hell does Mercedes feel the need to act like she cares? I know that the last thing she wants to hear is everything about my fucked-up ancestors and the sob story I faced as a teenager, about how none of my dreams have materialized and how it’s a wonder that I’m not dead like the rest of my family.

I try to save the night. I swear, that’s what I’m really trying to do. I could easily derail our whole pleasant Saturday by telling her everything I’ve had to see and describing in detail every funeral of every relative I’ve ever slightly cared about, but what good would that do? I wouldn’t feel any better, and she certainly wouldn’t care any more. In fact, the only thing it would do would make her dump a whole heap of pity on my poor soul. Oh, woe is me. Look at me, I’ve got nothing better to do with my life because everyone I know either hates me or is dead. I complain enough about stuff that has nothing to do with my upbringing. There’s no reason why she has to know about the other things I complain about to myself. I don’t need her feeling like she has to be around me or else I’ll just be an even more pathetic loser.

So I tell her exactly how it is. “Please stop prying. I couldn’t care less about telling you about my stupid family or how fucked up it is; in fact, sometimes I think about it for a laugh. But I don’t want you to pretend you care and only continue to hang around me out of pity if I did tell you.”

Mercedes looks more shocked than she ever has before, and the fact that she’s stuttering lets me know that I’ve hit the nail right on the head. “S-sorry…”

“So don’t say sorry when you don’t mean it,” I say to her. There’s no reason why she should want to know about me.

Her face goes from fearful to contorted up in disgruntlement. “You know, you’re bad at reading people.” Well, there goes our nice night. “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean that I’m sorry I intruded.”

We’re both red-faced and pissed at this point. I can tell from the way she’s got her hands balled up in fists, her white knuckles popping against the dark olive tone of her skin. My anger is something that I’ve gotten used to over the years, the boiling blood rushing through my ears a calming reminder that I’m alive.

“Okay, then I’ll return the favor,” I tell her. “I won’t intrude on your life anymore as long as you don’t intrude on mine, either. How about that?”

I don’t have the time or patience to look at her when I stand up and make my way to the front door. I don’t look back to see her facial expression when she shouts, “Wait!” when I open the door and walk into the chilly evening air. I don’t look back when I get into my car and speed away from her place, going twenty miles above the speed limit to get back to my apartment.

I just don’t look back at my actions with Mercedes. What’s done is done. I don’t want to see her again. She already knows more than enough about me and I certainly wouldn’t doubt her only ever reaching out to me out of pity. I was a pathetic sight when we first met – embarrassed by a seventh grader, pissed to no end, a black eye rearing its ugly head. I’m still pathetic, though. At least I have some control now.